On A Whim
by Demented Insomniac
Summary: He said that nothing was given for free in life and she had believed him. But if so, then what was the price for him utterly altering the course of her life on a whim? A DMHG tale.


* * *

She could not look around and even if she could, she did not want to. She had never been one to believe in heaven or hell or in any occult flim-flam her Divination teacher spewed constantly whatsoever but if there really was a purgatory like Christians claimed, this definitely had to be it. And, following that train of thought, she had a hard time figuring out what exactly she had done so wrong, what terrible sin she had committed, to deserve such severe punishment. 

She was in pain. She was in tremendous agony in more ways than one.

With every breath she took, her chest burnt horridly and made her feel like she was about to burst apart from the intensity of the ache. One didn't need to be a professional healer to figure one had at least a couple broken ribs. The slight asphyxiation and unrelenting light-headedness made her unpleasantly aware of the copious amounts of blood that oozed out of numerous wounds all over her entire being, her soul obviously in quite a hurry to flee the mortal confinement of her frail body. She had lost control over her crippled beyond repair limbs long ago and her grip on her consciousness was slipping just as successfully.

But it wasn't the physical discomfort that unsettled her.

It was the knowledge that no one would come looking for her here. To all her precious friends and comrades, she was just another fallen warrior for a better future. No one would mourn her before the end of the war, no one would remember of her before everything was over and then, with the years, even the memory of her would disappear from the burdened minds of her best mates. She would die there, among the mountains of bodies, just another reeking mound of rotting flesh in a sea of blood. It was blood that had started the war, and it was blood that would end it. How much blood did a maniac want to spill until he was satisfied?

The young woman felt tears of anguish brimming in her eyes. She had fought proudly, bravely, for a noble cause but was this all that she deserved? Did her ideals and efforts amount only to this pathetic, lonely death that she was given? What were her beliefs worth now if she died like a dog, just like any mindless Death Eater there that had just done the Dark Lord's bidding just to prolong his own pathetic existence? What was the difference between her and them in her last hour? Her bloody convictions weren't worth a knut.

She felt another sharp jab in her lungs that made her choke on some blood that rose in her throat and she instantly knew she wouldn't be much long then. Her chocolaty orbs, once windows to a beautiful soul of a decisive, strong person, finally gave up on her and her vision blurred. She lifted her unseeing eyes towards the dark cloudy skies, her last wish to see the bright sun once more before she passed on cruelly denied by nature.

It was ridiculous, really, how petty a sight the brightest witch of the century was in her last hour. She could almost swear that, before her lids became too heavy to hold open, she saw an obscure figure approach her and crouch beside her. It was hilarious, how desperate one's imagination became when death is about to claim one because no one roamed the battlegrounds after the battles have been fought—_no one_.

There was one thing that plagued her mind when her eyelids fell—gray. A haunting gray pair…

* * *

The only thing she could feel was her eyes fluttering open. Her mind, equally as numb and uncooperative as her entire body, started working on over-drive, frantic thoughts flying through her consciousness at a head-splitting speed. She soon noted absently that her eyes no longer stung from the blood that leaked from the countless wounds on her precious head. She felt dizzy, unable to grasp her surroundings in the darkness that engulfed her. There was no more asphyxiation yet breathing evenly still proved to be a hard task. 

From what little she could see, she couldn't remember ever being there. But before she could force herself to try to see anything else specific, a firm, cold yet somehow oddly soothing and vaguely familiar voice came from somewhere within the premise.

"Go back to sleep, Granger," it commanded tersely, leaving no room for complaint or disobedience.

And, for the first time in her entire life, Hermione Granger did gladly as Draco Malfoy ordered her to.

* * *

Next time Hermione opened her chocolate brown eyes she wished she hadn't. A wave of nausea drowned her with the first conscious breath she took and a sharp pang of pain shot throughout her whole body. The haunting gray eyes that had reigned over her restlessly sleeping mind were the first thing she saw when she awoke. 

With an odd combination of dread, panic and fear gripping her heart, the wounded girl made an attempt to get up and flee from this room where her enemy had her completely at his mercy but she then noticed that the stormy gray orbs of Draco Malfoy were skimming down the page of a large book the size, and probably weight, of a Muggle brick. She couldn't help her curiosity piquing and, realizing that her limbs weren't going to follow her brain's bidding any time soon as it was, she grudgingly chose to remain silent and hopefully not alert him of her consciousness.

"Don't _move_, Granger—believe me, you wouldn't want me messing up this particular spell," the blonde menace drawled out in his usual tone that would have had her involuntarily shudder if she had been capable to. He then added snidely, as an afterthought, "Even a no-good Mudblood like yourself doesn't deserve to die such a pathetic death of growing a spine where there had once been liver."

Alarms went off in her head so horribly loud she found herself trying to say something to halt him before he killed her. There was a reason why only professional healers performed complex spells of the kind and she wasn't exactly keen on being the living—though probably not for long if this kept up—proof for that fact.

"Mal…foy," she croaked pitifully, gathering his attention once he closed the large book with a loud thud.

"Why, Granger, how nice of you to still remember me!" he mocked ill-naturedly, but her disarrayed mind chose to ignore his tone and words. It wasn't as if she _could_ forget his haughty mug even if she tried her hardest, or the greasy gelled back platinum hair that she despised the mere thought of as it was one of the things that boosted his overly inflated ego.

"What are you…?" She made another go at interrogating him, at defending herself against his evil ways, but it was no good—her voice was a lost cause. Her throat was dry, her lips were painfully parched and she couldn't for the life of her do anything other than blink and breathe.

"Shut up and just lie down, will you already?" he quipped snappily, his patience with her running out quickly. Obviously, baiting her in such a fragile state wasn't as fun as he had imagined, the insufferable git. "You're ruining my concentration."

She had been about to rebuke him. Really. But with one muttered incantation on his part she was silenced more successfully than if she had been charmed into it. Wave upon wave of relief swept her off her feet when the stress she hadn't realized had built up in her battered body began leaving her, slowly and smoothly with a perfectly performed complicated healing spell by her sworn pureblood enemy.

While her mind retired to its recesses, she couldn't help pondering why he was helping her… and why he had saved her from certain death.

* * *

"Drink the draught on the drawer, it will help your throat," he commanded her first thing her lids revealed her brilliant brown orbs. 

The sleepy girl scrutinized the said vial on the stand next to the king-sized luxuriously clad bed that she laid in with obvious distrust. Anything offered by a Malfoy was to be distrusted, in her opinion. It would help her throat, would it? Help it to _what_? Stop working altogether, maybe? She wasn't drinking it.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger! Just drink the bloody draught!" The young man snapped as he witnessed her obvious disdain about fulfilling his demand. When she continued adamantly just staring at the vial full of an equivocal dark liquid, Draco sighed in exasperation. "Drink it, Granger, or I'll make you," he all but threatened.

That little piece of information sufficed to have her reaching tentatively for the glassy container. The white-blonde Death Eater didn't move a muscle before he saw her empty the contents of it after which he looked much less moody. She had reasoned with herself that she was as good as dead to everyone she cared for in this world anyway—what did it matter whether she died in a duel, in a skirmish or poisoned by Draco bloody Malfoy? The end result would remain the same.

It wasn't as if she had given up the thought of fleeing first thing she was back on her two good legs—by all means, that was her highest priority. But in order to do so, she might as well use her voice to banter Malfoy every now and then instead of letting him win every argument because of her lack of strength. Besides, just the thought of having his sleazy little paws touch her made a disgusted shiver run down her spine.

"Now that wasn't as difficult, was it?" he derided her as he stood up and gathered the empty vial. She glared up at him and opened her mouth to speak but his raised hand stopped her from it. "Don't push it, Granger—just get back to recovering because I need you all healthy and ready for action as soon as possible."

And with that he retired for the night, day, or whatever the time was—she couldn't tell because of the elaborate dark green luxurious drapes that could probably block even the summer sun entry in the dark room. Suddenly feeling a much too familiar for the last awkward days exhaustion, she chose to sleep in for the day and not mull too much over how creepy 'ready for action' sounded coming from his foul Malfoy little mouth.

* * *

It was amazing how she shouldn't have been able to awake at all, how she should have died days ago, on that battlefield, alone and broken, forgotten and never to be gazed upon again. To have her rescued in her greatest time of need by the last person on Earth she wanted to encounter ever again had to be the cruelest joke fate had ridiculed her with. As if it wasn't enough, she had had to take orders from the prat for a week or so now, and what was even worse, it was exactly thanks to his nursing that she was recovering at a mind-numbing pace. 

She shouldn't have been able to walk after she had taken a powerful spell directly in the legs in her attempt to stop a fleeing Death Eater but she had been exploring the house she had been placed in for the last couple of days. She shouldn't have been able to move even a muscle below her neck because of the dealt damage but she had been up and about for three days in a row, making a flawless recovery.

And it greatly unsettled her.

Was this all a great plan to get her to work for the Dark Lord? Was it just a plot to make her feel indebted to the sniveling rich daddy's boy? Was she supposed to forgive him all of the crude remarks, downright horrible words and accusations through all six years that they had spent in Hogwarts? Because she was definitely planning on doing none of the above. Even if he started handing out candy for charity on Christmas Eve and gave his entire fortune for orphans, she'd never believe Malfoy and his cunning ways. He certainly had an ulterior motive but she was yet to find out what it was.

What she had on him was that he had brought her to his Manor—judging by the exquisiteness of the place and the pictures hung all over the walls of blonde wizards and witches, most of which of the late Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy—given her his room—considering how atrociously green it was—and was constantly checking up on her health, reading huge books on various helpful draughts, healing spells and herbs. What she couldn't figure out was _why_—the most important question. He still appeared to be disgusted at the thought of having a Mudblood sleep in his precious bed covers which he'd probably throw away once she was out for good, he still hated her guts when he looked at her and he definitely made no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice when he berated her for her weakness, sloppiness or whatever sprung to mind at the moment.

Why then? Was this another one of the Dark Lord's missions for him, like the one with Dumbledore? She wished not to think that far back in the past. Whatever Malfoy wanted, he wasn't going to get, because she had an opposition to lead and had no time to dilly-dally in playing games with a vile git.

She had been looking for him for a while but didn't seem to find him anywhere. She felt like she was going in circles but stubbornly refused to admit that she was lost. How could one get lost in a _house_, however big it might be? She wasn't _lost_—she just wasn't exactly certain where she was, was all.

When she could no longer go on checking rooms, she chose a study for her temporary stop as she needed to take a breather from walking around too much in her weakened state. Maybe she should have stayed in bed but it was growing so tiresome staring at the same ceiling day after day. Besides, wherever she looked in that bloody room, everything screamed so loud "Malfoy" that she felt the need to gag every time she thought about it.

Hermione wasn't exactly a nosy person but you'd be surprised what boredom can do to usually active people like her. It was because of this unhealthy curiosity that she started opening drawers in the desk, completely ignoring her voice of reason that claimed doing so was utterly wrong, especially since she was residing the house and room of her biggest adversary in her school years.

Still, she kept it up until she spotted a pensieve in the bottom drawer, obviously recently used. Having nothing better to do and being in a foreign home, she decided that she might as well give it a peak. After all, if he didn't want her roaming about he'd have charmed the door to her room, right? It was his own fault she was about to fiddle with his stored away memories. Besides, if his pensieve was such an important object, he would have hidden it better, wouldn't he?

Once she plunged inside of it, the last memory that he had inserted came in view—it was the wretched spot which should have been her last resting place.

There, on a hill where one of the decisive battles between the Dark and the Light had taken place, was a sole survivor walking slowly, gracefully, giving the impression of almost floating, with his head and chin held high while he inspected the corpses of the fallen. All of his allies and foes had left the battlefield and the only ones who remained were those who could no longer continue to fight. Most had received the killing unforgivable curse, others were soon going to die from blood loss and the rest just didn't know on which world they were walking and would too, eventually, pass on. Though it would probably take them more time than it had taken the others.

As the tall lean youth took small steps, carefully avoiding stepping on anyone in fear of getting his expensive boots dirty—Hermione snorted at his behavior—he took a slight nudge at someone's face or limp body every now and then, making sure some were dead and checking if others weren't until they arrived at a familiar scene.

A painfully familiar scene.

There, beneath him, lay the pathetic, torn corpse of a dying witch with frizzy hair and hollow eyes. Hermione recognized the bloody mess as herself a week or so ago and realized just how terrible she looked. But instead of bending down and helping her or just leaving right away, Draco just regarded her for five long minutes, not making the effort of tilting his head to look at her clearly—he just glared at her haughtily with his raised chin, making the present day Hermione fume.

He nudged the lying girl with the tip of his boot much like he had done with countless others but seemed unsatisfied with the result when she gave a gurgling choke and some crimson trickled down the side of her mouth, tainting her unnaturally pallid cheeks. His brilliantly blonde eye brows furrowed in disgust and he turned around on his heel, ready to leave her to her doom when something made him look at her again over his shoulder.

For a moment his expression became so guarded that Hermione couldn't even begin to figure out what was happening in that thick head of his but, before she knew it, he was crouching next to her, checking her fallen self's pulse. His grimace spoke volumes—he knew she was dying and was obviously debating whether he should do something about it or not.

He took the decision quickly enough though, surprising Hermione, and fished in his cloak's pocket for his wand. Once he had it out and ready he eyed it and reconsidered using it—magic was easy to track and he was being terribly secretive about the whole ordeal so he chose against it and instead collected the broken witch in his arms with his face screwed in the most repulsed expression a human was capable of. Had anyone been around him that day, he surely would have whined and complained about it all the way to Malfoy Manor, she was sure of that.

She felt the memory fading but, just before it did, the memory-Malfoy noticed that memory-Hermione had her fingers still clutching the wand tightly. It could have been just a trick of her tired mind, but Hermione could almost swear that his sharp features softened for a moment as he fastened the hold of her stark fingers around the object and took off north.

Once she was back, the former Gryffindor needed a minute or so to gather her wits again from what she had just seen. She wasn't really sure what the meaning of it was or why it was so important for Malfoy to keep such an insignificant memory in a pensieve but she'd probably make a point of asking him that later, when he returned from wherever he had gone.

"Did you have fun pushing your ugly little nose in my business?" a familiar drawl asked uninterestedly from the door, making her snap up her head to look at him and instantly regretting it as the jerky action made her world spin all over again. She gave no outward sign of her discomfort though—that would be showing weakness in front of her greatest antagonist of all time and it was generally considered a bad idea to give your enemy munitions to battle you with.

"Well, sorry not all of us were born with superior pure blood and genetically programmed perfection," she quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she did so. She pushed herself out of the seat just as Draco was entering the room.

"I suppose I can try to forgive you for that, Granger, but I can't promise anything," he retorted smugly, crossing his lanky arms over his lean chest.

"What do you want from me, Malfoy?" Hermione asked seriously, her tone dropping low.

"Right now I really want a nice long hot shower. Then again being around you and your reeking Muggle-born blood doesn't exactly help me feel at home and all—"

"I meant," she interrupted him before he went on to try to get a rise of her because, what with her short temper and her incapability of holding it at bay, she might as well poke his eyes out for being such a git to her. "Why did you rescue me? What do you want from me? Surely your superior Malfoy help isn't free for the undeserving like me."

"_Nothing_ is given for free in this life, Granger," Malfoy said in a low voice as he sidestepped her and went to sit on his desk. "It's just a matter of time before you understand what you have to give in return for the favour."

"And what is it that you want for your favour, Malfoy? Because I'm not going to give you any information on the Order or any of those in Dumbledore's Army," she informed.

"I don't _want_ to know anything about your stooges of accomplices and I don't care about your plans to destroy Voldemort." Hermione shuddered roughly at the mention of His name. She still had to grow out of that nasty habit but she couldn't help it. Since when was Malfoy so disrespecting of his Lord, calling him by name? "I only care about mine."

"And I suppose, with me being here, I am a part of this genius plan of yours?"

"Why, Granger, I think I'm starting to see why they called you the brightest witch in our year—you really _are_ smart!" he taunted her with feigned surprise, making her roll her eyes in irritation.

"I think I'll be going now," she said and turned to go for the door. It slammed closed and the lock clicked with a single flick of Malfoy's wand that he had extracted from his robes with staggering succession. She whipped her head over her shoulder to glare at him, once again feeling extremely sorry for the sudden movement as the world, that had finally settled, started spinning again.

"You're not going _anywhere_ until I say so," he told her in a dangerously low voice, in a tone that almost made her shudder. Almost.

"Oh? So I'm not rescued but imprisoned?" The pair of deep tell-tale gray eyes rolled in annoyance at her words.

"If you _were_ a prisoner, Granger, I believe I would've charmed the door to my room so you wouldn't be able to go anywhere whatsoever, and definitely would've kept you in the dungeons where there's a fitting atmosphere for prisoners." He snorted. "Honestly, I think I'll take back what I said about you being smart."

"Then why can't I leave _now_?" She was in a rush to get to the point because all these days spent in solitude with him as her only company every now and then were definitely getting to her head. That and she felt like she needed to rid herself of the grotesque pictures that flashed through her mind at the mention of 'dungeons'.

"Like I already told you once, Granger—I need you perfectly healthy before you can go back to your little goons. Until then, you will stay here, behind the walls of the Manor, where no one will come looking for me or you." Everything that he said to her had no logic behind it but the last part was the one that made her frown in thought.

"Why wouldn't anyone come looking for you in your own Manor? It has no sense."

"Because they know how much I despise the place, of course," was his laconic response as he fingered the pensieve meaningfully.

This little nugget of information was something Hermione had never thought she'd live to hear. She had always thought he liked to flaunt his fortune and 'noble' heritage in others' faces and that he enjoyed the feeling of power. So why wouldn't he want to keep all of these elaborate luxuries that the house offered for himself? They were his, after all, as the Malfoys' only heir.

She figured that he wouldn't tell her even if she asked so she chose a different question.

"And just how am I included in those so-called plans of yours? I hope that you don't think that I'd help you just because what you did, Malfoy—one good deed isn't enough to make up for years of torment."

"Ah, now that's the Hermione Granger everyone knows and _loves_," his voice was seeped with sarcasm. "Always the insufferable know-it-all, always to be the one in control of the situation." His eyes narrowed at her. "Don't worry yourself, Granger—you're the last person I'd want help from."

"What do you want with me then?" she asked, eager to get to the point of the lengthy conversation because she was sure that so much exposure to Malfoy for a day wasn't healthy at all.

"Everyone thinks you're dead—Death Eaters and Order alike. I'm waiting until the thought has settled well in their minds until I let you go back to them, in one piece and perfectly fit. Your arrival will cause enough shock to ripple in the ranks of wizards for me to be able to do as I plan."

"That's it?" she asked incredulously, barely believing her ears. Draco shot her a priceless bored look at her question. "You're not going to try to persuade me to join your side; you're not going to torture information out of me or anything vile and cruel?"

"As much as I hate to burst your bubble, Granger, _no_." He eyed her from head to toe. "I wouldn't want to be on the same side as you for the world and as fun as torture sounds, I'm not really up to it right now. But if you insist on it, it could be arranged." He smirked in that fiendish way only he could manage and she had to suppress another repulsed shudder.

"So… all I have to do is wait here until you tell me to go?" she prodded the topic, making sure she had understood him correctly. His exasperated sigh told her she did. Then a thought occurred to her. "What makes you think I won't break out of here before that?"

"Because, dearest Mudblood, there are charms on all the exits that allow only _me_ to go in and out as I please. To undo them, you need to have a wand, which, you don't."

His words made her feel her—charmed whole and clean again, she noted absent-mindedly—clothes for the said object that she indeed found missing. She looked up to glare menacingly at him. The blonde just waved a dismissive hand at her.

"Now, now, Granger, don't you worry your little head—your wand is perfectly fine. I'm just safekeeping it until you can go as a guarantee that you're not leaving prematurely is all. Will you _please_," the word had never sounded as insincere as it did on his foul thin pinkish lips, "relieve me of your presence now that I have answered your questions? I don't think I can take any more of it for a single day."

With an indignant snort, Hermione turned on her heel and marched for the door. It wasn't as if she was doing it because he had said 'please'—which was a very disturbing thought in itself, even if he had been endlessly sardonic about it—she wanted to get out of a room that had him just as much as he did.

* * *

While it was a perfectly fine proposal—just laying low until the time was right—Hermione found herself impatient to leave first thing next morning, or whenever it was that she woke up. 

She had already memorized all the rooms on the same floor, there wasn't a single book in his quarters that she hadn't read before (she tried not to let the thought that she and Malfoy had the same reading interests bother her too greatly) and there was nothing to do in the bloody Manor other than stare in one point for all day long, nothing.

And she found herself bloody bored and horribly lonely.

She entertained herself with thinking about her friends, about what they were possibly doing, coming up with various scenarios of how they would react upon seeing her alive, whether they had been worried for her or not and such. But after a while, even those warm thoughts in a place as depressing as Malfoy Manor weren't sufficient to keep one busy and she found herself fittingly discomforted by the perpetual darkness that gripped the place.

She heard Malfoy come in the next day and debated with herself whether an infuriating argument was worth the nerve wreck and decided surprisingly fast that _anything_ was better than the deafening quietness of the room.

So she did just that—went to nag at him.

Being the only other living being in the vicinity, he didn't need to look up from his working desk to know it was her when the door to his study creaked open. He sighed in irritation and continued writing with his expensive-looking quill. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if everything about his was so lavish and costly. Was this the reason why he had left the mansion? And just what the hell did _she_ care about his reasons?

"_What_, Granger? Can't you see I'm busy?" He finally snapped after making the greatest of shows for her of how busy he was by ignoring her for five entire minutes during which she didn't remove herself from the room just as pigheadedly.

"I'm bored," she told him truthfully.

"Well go be bored somewhere else—Merlin knows there are enough rooms here for fifty of you to be bored in. You're in the way of my work." With that said, the conversation was perfectly over for him. Too bad that this time, much like any other time, Hermione disagreed. "Did you not hear what I said?" He glared up at her for the first time that day, finally deeming her worthy of his full attention.

She smirked internally at how greatly her presence infuriated him—his brow was creased in an intimidating manner but she was in such a dire need of entertainment that she ignored the message it sent her completely.

"There's nothing to do around here," she informed him as if he cared. He made a point of showing her he didn't.

"Oh, how atrociously thoughtless of me to save you from certain doom and then just fail to find something to keep your slow-witted mind occupied." His jaw set firmly in his ire. "Honestly, Granger, I couldn't care less whether you find your stay here enjoyable or not. As a matter of fact, the more miserable you are, the happier it makes me."

"Maybe you won't be as be as happy to know that misery likes company then?" She leered back at him with equal fervour.

"This conversation is proving more and more taxing to my patience, Granger, and I suggest you leave now before it evaporates altogether because, I assure you, you won't like me when I'm impatient," he threatened in that dull, uninterested tone which was already slightly cracking with his failing efforts to keep his cool.

To his dismay, the fact only served to amuse Hermione further. She wasn't leaving any time soon if it depended on her.

"Well, seeing as I detest you even when you aren't, it might be a desirable change," she replied and heard him exhale a shaky careful breath, tentatively massaging the bridge of his fine aristocratic nose. She gave an inward snort—the insufferable prat.

"I should've left you rot when I had the chance," Draco mumbled beneath his breath, suddenly feeling incredibly sorry for himself.

"Why didn't you?" the mudblood returned, catching a glimpse of a sensible exchange than just random banter.

"I believe we've already been through that."

"Oh, _please_," Hermione spat short-temperedly and rolled her lively brown eyes. "You and I both know that it will take more than my reappearance to distract the Dark Lord and if it really was the only reason for you saving me from certain death, I'm sure that you wouldn't have done it."

"And just _how_ can you be so sure of yourself, Granger, pray tell?" the young man parried, glaring daggers at her.

"I _saw_ your memory, Malfoy, remember? It definitely took you a while to come to a decision and I doubt that your only argument for it was just this plot of yours. You bring me here, keep calling me by my name as if to keep reminding yourself repeatedly who I am," the corner of his mouth twitched barely discernibly as the only indication that she had struck a nerve but she hadn't missed it and it fuelled her determination, "you nurse me back to health despite the fact how repulsed you are with my presence in your bloody life and you still want me to believe that this plan of yours just _needs_ my assistance, even if it's indirect? Certainly you don't think I'm _that_ gullible to believe such a load of rubbish?"

For a minute, all Draco did was gaze intently at her, probably contemplating what he should say to her. As she waited, the witch found herself disturbingly interested in what he would come out with. Blimey, she really _was_ so dreadfully bored as to be intrigued by anything Malfoy had to tell her.

"Maybe I rescued you on a whim," he spoke softly yet his tone never losing its usual edge. "Maybe I only wanted to see if I can. Or maybe I wished to see for myself if a Gryffindor was so painfully naïve to be readily derailed from the path of loathe just by the feeling of debt for having one's life saved once by a sworn enemy. Maybe I wanted to see if there was a heart so noble and dupable as to forgive countless misconceived deeds by just a single good one. Maybe I was blindly, unwittingly seeking redemption. Or maybe this is just another elaborate plan in misleading the Light to believe that there are servants of the Dark Lord who truly regret going down a dead-end path of no return. You choose which one sounds most credible, Granger—it's your call."

It took a great deal of effort to keep her dignity in the situation. The last time her thoughts had been as hectic was during her Ancient Runes O.W.L. exam.

"So…" she began shakily, her voice embarrassingly unsteady. She cleared her throat to get a grip on herself. "It was just a whim then?"

"Just a whim, Granger—nothing else. Don't look too much into it for something that isn't there."

He said it as if he truly would have agreed with anything she wished to believe. The thought made her all fidgety inside. Malfoy had always been a whimsical prat but somehow, with the tone he was using and the looks he was giving her with those protruding grayish eyes of his, the thought rang disquietingly insincere in her garbled mind.

"I'll let you work now then, I guess," she finally announced and turned around as level-headedly as she could, considering all the things she had heard from him that suddenly made her unflagging odium for him waver in the slightest.

* * *

The days passed and the perturbing conversations only increased in number. 

On a day, just like any other recently, Hermione made her way for Draco's quarters when the spacious room he had given her no longer provided her solace. She dashed thoughtlessly into the room, swinging the door open vigorously, to be met with the broad back of the Malfoy heir. She couldn't help noticing, as one had to be downright blind not to, that the snow white flesh was marred by a large ugly scar that cut diagonally from his right arm to his left hip.

His knuckles rapped against the wood of his open wardrobe before he looked over his pallid shoulder to glare intently at her.

"It's called _knocking_, Granger. Surely your incompetent muggle parents taught you at least _that_ simple a formality?" Hermione made the greatest of efforts not to reproach him for the rude comment since it had been equally as rude of her not to announce her arrival and instead focused on what she had come to bug him for.

"There's nothing edible in the kitchen."

"Well then it's just too bad that you'll have to starve until there is, isn't it?" He snapped with renewed vigour when she just refused to get the hint and leave him be. Silence engulfed them for a long moment during which Draco rummaged through his robes to find something comfortable to groom himself in. "You're still on the wrong side of the door," he observed in an irked tone.

"Where did you get such a nasty scar?" she asked, finally unable to contain herself.

"We're not having a heart to heart here, Granger, and, in case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to change." He spoke to her as if she was retarded but had learnt to pay his words no heed with all the years of constant taunting.

"Did someone attack you from behind?" Her face screwed in disgust that wasn't directed at him. A Malfoy was a Malfoy and the slimy git deserved many things, but being assaulted without given the chance to retaliate was something not even the lowest of creatures—such as him—didn't deserve.

"Imagine that, not the entire bloody world is as righteous as you Gryffindors. Will you leave already?" He half-turned around at his question, his eyes flashing spitefully. In turning, though, he involuntarily allowed her a glimpse of his exposed sinewy ribcage. She slapped herself repeatedly for having a surprisingly hard time not staring. Well, she guessed she had to give him that he was well-built, as far as physique was concerned.

But it was still Draco blasted Malfoy that she was looking at and the fact made her eyes squint with repugnance.

"It looks fresh—who did it to you? Was it one of your people? Is that why you're turning on them?" the frizzy haired female continued doggedly pursuing the subject.

"As _endearing_ as I find your interest in my personal matters to be," he began tautly, "I fail to see how any of this is your concern." Then he added in a smugger tone, "If you wanted to see me naked so badly, you should have asked, Granger. I would have obliged, just to appease your interest."

The girl made a repulsed grimace.

"Get over yourself, you pompous prat," she spat venomously, execrated by the thought.

"I _would_ if you left, you filthy mudblood," he hissed back as he pulled the robes over his shoulders and hiding the scar from her prying eyes.

And that's when she had had enough.

Years upon years of infantile arguments got to her and, finally fed up with it, she looked around frantically for something breakable. She grabbed the nearest porcelain vase and shattered it against the ground. The sound made the Malfoy son look at her, now fully clothed, his jaw tight in anger.

"That was worth more than your pathetic life, Granger," he informed her in an icy tone. His composure faltered when he saw her bend down and pick up the sharpest-looking of the broken fragments from the floor. "What the bloody hell are you doing?" he asked in alarm, instantly feeling very sorry he had left his wand on the night stand out of his arm's immediate reach.

But instead of attacking him, she did something totally unexpected—she tore a large gash in her palm with her shaking limbs. The wounded hand shook violently with the shock of its owner deliberately hurting herself and crimson liquid streamed from the deep cut. She took a few large strides, closing the gap between them before she stood right next to him.

"Here!" she yelled enraged, shoving her hand in his face. "Look at it closely, the blood that you claim to be muddy, the blood of a muggle-born witch, a blood no more special than any other living being's! Look at it and tell me frankly—what's the difference between yours and mine?"

He stared at her wounded palm but refused to look at her in the eye. He then dodged her and took his wand, muttered a spell that repaired the damage she had done to herself, then another that put the vase together again on its rightful place as if it had never been broken and, without another word, left her to calm herself in his temporary quarters.

He didn't want to acknowledge with her that he _knew_—that he _always_ had known—there was none.

* * *

The following day Hermione found her wand on the night stand next to her bed. Just her wand and not even a peep from Malfoy. 

Needless to say, she wasted no time in gathering it and leaving the accursed Manor as quickly as she could. She never looked back or told anyone where she had been during the week or so she had been gone. She didn't like talking about it, she didn't like thinking about it and, had it been possible, she would have Obliviated her own memory. But since it wasn't, she just pretended it had never happened.

She never saw him or heard of him ever again. Just like she had wished.

After all, he had merely rescued her on a whim.

* * *

_This is my first attempt at Draco/Hermione fan fiction so please forgive it for sucking. I was planning on having Draco die in this one but decided to leave the end to the reader's imagination instead. I just couldn't bring myself to Avada Kedavra him!_

_Err… so… I'd mainly ask you for some constructive criticism because God only knows that this has to be the most random and pointless thing I have ever written… I hope I left no glaring mistakes in my wake as I proof-read it._

_I also want to dedicate this first and, ultimately, all my subsequent Hermione/Draco works to **Your Mom Is My Heart.** because she was the one who made me believe in me enough to trust myself with a story on them of my own. She's has to be the nicest person ever and if you still hadn't read her "Don't Go in the Basement", you should correct your mistake as soon as possible—it's quite original, in my humble opinion, the character development is lovely, their interactions are endearing and, all in all, she is a great author. Trust me when I say she's positively amazing. _

_Thank you again for your attention! DHA.

* * *

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